


A Simpler Quest

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Crack Treated Seriously, Episode: s01e13 Le Morte D'Arthur, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Merlin Canon Fest, Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: In which Nimueh is not as clever as she thinks she is, the poor Questing Beast is just misunderstood, and everyone is lucky that Morgana is a close reader. (An alternate take on S1x13 Le Morte D'Arthur)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66
Collections: Merlin Canon 2020





	A Simpler Quest

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. The Questing Beast wishes you all to know that she sincerely regrets what happened to Sir Bedivere.
> 
> Thank you Canon Fest Mods!

Glatisant is no hound. A Questing Beast does not come when called, obeys no laws but her own, but Nimueh is clever. She knows the old girl's habits, all her favourite meal caches and napping spots and, most importantly, her greatest weakness: Glatisant is a slave to the scent of magic. She becomes excitable at the merest whiff, positively intoxicated by the stronger stuff. Ygraine's pregnancy had nearly driven the poor thing mad. For months she'd haunted the lands around Camelot, causing a great nuisance with her howling and barking and binge-eating of livestock. On the night of Arthur's birth, Nimueh had had to enlist the aid of the Sidhe _and_ the Druids to distract Glatisant from trying to enter the palace.

So while it's more a case of properly motivating the old girl to wake up from her latest nap than "conjuring her from the earth itself," as Gaius claims, Nimueh's not going to quibble. "Conjuring" sounds more impressive, after all, and she's no objection to enemies enhancing her reputation.

* * *

Morgana is no fool. She allows herself to be led away from the palace steps, trundled off to Gaius' tower like a weaver with a bad case of boils.

Along the way, her terror over her dreams gives way to embarrassment, then outrage. She _knows_ what she saw, and it's hardly the first time. Fleeing her chambers without so much as a thought for her modesty—nor her bare feet—and running after Arthur like a jilted lover? Making a scene in front of the men? It's not something she'd do lightly, and he should bloody well know that by now. Dammit, _Merlin_ should know, only he's too wrapped up in his own head these days.

She honestly doesn't understand the point of all that magic being wasted on keeping Arthur's head on his shoulders when there are so many others suffering or in peril, but Merlin had promised there was a grand plan, and she'd promised Merlin that she would help him in exchange for the tutelage Gaius had denied her.

Yet there are times, like today, when she wonders at the wisdom of the teacher—both of them, actually—for the answer is _right there_ on the pages of the book Gaius had left out on his workbench. 

The Questing Beast holds the power of life and death. Life _and_ death, so once she gets over the fresh surge of panic at learning that one bite will surely kill Arthur, she sees the inherent contradiction in Gaius' claim that there is no cure. She takes the book and holes up in the library, poring over it and every bestiary she can find until Gwen comes with word that the men have returned. 

When she sees Uther staggering across the courtyard, Arthur's limp body in his arms, she hurries down to waylay Merlin before he can do something rash.

"Not now," he mutters, trying to shake her off.

"Yes now," she insists. "We've got to save Arthur. You've got to—"

"See Kilgharrah. Tell him I've failed, we've failed, and I—" 

"No!" Morgana presses the book into his hands, holds it there until he stills and finally looks down at it. "Kilgharrah cannot help you. Or rather, he might, but I don't trust him, and we've no time to waste. The men said you tracked the creature to a cave. Can you find your way back without Arthur?"

"I…yes, I think so, but—"

"Then gather some empty vials and whatever you can charm out of Cook and meet me at the stables. Quickly now. From what I've read it'll be more potent if it's fresh."

Merlin gapes at her. "Er…if what's fresh?"

She taps the book. "Saliva."

"Saliva?"

"Spit."

"Yes, I know what—"

"Think, Merlin! One bite means death, yet the creature holds the power of _life_ as well."

"But there is no cure."

"No cure for death, perhaps, but there is an antidote to the venom that causes it."

Merlin blinks, clutching at her sleeve. "So you're saying…"

" _Yes_ , Merlin. Vials. Food. Stables. As quick as you can."

* * *

Glatisant is knackered. She wishes dearly to slip off into a well-earned nap, perhaps one lasting several decades. Her tolerance for indulging in the presence of so much magic, it seems, is waning. The wild ecstasy of the chase is just as sweet, but the misunderstandings between herself and her quarry are worse than ever, as is the depression that follows. She hadn't wanted to hurt the fair one, for goodness' sake. She never wants to hurt any of them—wounded meat makes for frightened magic, and fear spoils the flavour—but that's the trouble with men. They're twitchy and unpredictable, always shouting and insisting on girding themselves with thorns of steel. If only they'd just keep _still_ and allow her to scent them, give them a good lick and a nuzzle, maybe play-wrestle for a bit before snuggling up for a nap.

The young warlock had not dealt her a mortal blow—no such thing exists for one such as she—but he had greatly wounded her pride, damaged her spirit to the point she'd played dead just to spare herself the humiliation of such a rude and emphatic rejection.

She's moping in her cave, licking her wounds when she smells it. Not as strong as that of the one who'd woken her, but fresh, raw. _Delicious._

She lifts her head with a moan of longing, extending her tongue into the air. The one who'd wounded her has come as well, and they are getting closer. No steel with them this time though, and they have brought…is that…could it really be fresh capons and pickled eggs?

* * *

Guinevere is under no illusion. She knows that, as fond as she and Arthur are of one another—and as much as she sometimes enjoys the idle fantasy of being Queen, never having to fetch water or bite her tongue ever again—she knows that this isn't their destiny, nor would it bring true happiness. 

It makes it easier, in a way, to speak from the heart. She feels no shame in telling him what she believes to be true, trusts that he won't read anything into it but sincere affection and faith in his leadership.

It makes it easier to look him in the eye when he reaches for her wrist, stalling her while the others depart his chambers. 

"You'll tell me the truth now, won't you Gwen?" he says, his voice still raw from disuse. "My father seems to think I was for the worms. What was it Gaius gave me?"

She smiles at his sweat-damp hair and furrowed brow, the traces of spittle drying on his chin.

"I think it best you don't know," she says gravely, patting his arm. "But I will tell you this: You've Merlin and Morgana to thank for it."

* * *

Nimueh paces the Isle of the Blessed, puzzled and thoroughly vexed. After three days her hair is a tangled wreck and her dress is soaked through. She's broken a heel, twisted her ankle, and she thinks there might be lichen growing under her nails.

She's scried, summoned birds to share their gossip, even shouted down clouds from the skies. But still, the little boat remains on the far shore, and there is no word of travellers through the mountain pass. No one, it seems, is coming to seek her aid. 

On the fourth day she lies down on the altar and tries to figure out where she went wrong. Last time she had underestimated Merlin and Arthur's unselfish—some would say foolhardy—devotion to one another. This time she'd been counting on it, just as she'd been counting on Gaius to break down and confess the secrets of the Isle, and on Glatisant to be tireless in her efforts to bestow her deadly affections.

Someone, somewhere, has not played their part. It's all very irksome.

On the fifth day, Nimueh goes home to her cave. She takes off the guise of seductress and bids it good riddance, resuming her natural shape. She sets some oats to soak for porridge and cuts up some spoiled fruit for the bats. The she conjures up a hot bath and a flagon of wine and settles in for a nice long soak and plotting session. 

Perhaps she should try something simple. Knives. Poison. Hire an assassin, even, if she doesn't feel like donning another guise and doing the job herself. Only…with a mind such as hers and so many magical creatures to exploit, what's the fun in simple?

* * *


End file.
